Category Archives: Travel

Mar3

A lovely Kazakh bride and her ‘prince of the hearth’…

Posted on March 3, 2015 by terryannewilson

The lovely bride, Rysgul at her ‘first’ wedding

I first met Rysgul at our hotel where she works in sales. It was a fleeting moment and our paths didn’t cross again until a recent cocktail evening. I was immediately struck by her warmth and we chatted easily. When I asked what her name meant, Rysgul replied, “It means ‘kind flower.” Her name suits her perfectly; she has a modest grace and classic Kazakh beauty, embodied in dark enchanting eyes and long, glossy black hair.

“I’m a newlywed,’ she happily announced early into our conversation. After congratulating her, I steeled myself to ask the question, curiosity getting the better of me. “Did you marry a ‘prince of the hearth?’ “I did,” Rysgul beamed, “so yes, I now live with my husband and his parents.’ I was referring to the Kazakh tradition of the youngest son taking the role of ‘prince of the hearth.’ It is his duty to live with and care for his parents. When one marries ‘the prince’ custom dictates that the bride moves to his childhood home. This new extended family isn’t for a month or a year; it’s a life long commitment. Rysgul explained that she was raised to respect this tradition and is proud, as is her family, that she’s now in this role. When I ventured that this would be considered unusual in many Western cultures, she did not waver or appear to desire it any other way.

Rysgul is a modern woman, yet committed to traditions that bind this area of Kazakhstan together, more so than other parts of the country. “I’d love to hear more about your culture,” I said, ‘and of course your wedding. I’m also curious about your striking wedding jackets and the unique hats you wear.’ Having noticed countless weddings at the hotel, the premier venue in the city, the questions were already forming in my mind.

“Yes the kamzol and saukele, we could do an interview if you’d like?” Rsygul responded graciously. What followed the next day was a delightful two-hour conversation and an outing to the award winning showroom, Nur Shah. It was an unexpected insight into the journey of a modern day bride, one that is still very much layered with tradition.

Where did you meet your husband Rysgul, how long were you engaged?

We met in a nightclub though neither of us were particularly in the mood to be there. We dated for about four years, but once you get engaged here it all happens quickly. In Kazakh tradition, a group from the boy’s family visits his girlfriend’s parents, they sip tea and eventually ask for her hand in marriage. A female relative of the hopeful groom adorns the girl with golden earrings. This means the girl is now taken, engaged. My fiancé offered a diamond ring as well. A day was agreed upon and it was official. Typically, an engagement is only 2 to 3 months.

Is anything given to the groom’s family?

Yes, depending on the status of the family, some money is given. It’s like a dowry to compensate for what the groom’s side has spent on new furniture, houseware, bedding items and carpets. There was once the tradition of giving 47 head of cattle for a bride. This has transformed into presenting a korzhun, a traditional bag with 47 various gifts inside. The bags are decorated with coins, rings and bead necklaces. They are passed down within the family. There are two wedding ceremonies, the first is for me as a send off, which was here at the hotel. All of my friends were here and my husband’s siblings.

Is that when you wear the beautiful kamzol and the saukele?

Yes, the traditional part of the wedding is when I wore the national dress or kamzol. I felt like a princess. The silver jewellery is also important, kind of good luck charms. That’s also when my braids were displayed.

The traditional image with braids displayed

Tell me about that, the knee-length hair that many young Kazakh women have.

It is the custom, if possible, to grow our hair to this length at least until we get married. It’s considered very feminine and beautiful. Yet when we do reveal it, we should off-set it with big bows or even bells, so as to not appear vain.

Will you cut your hair now that you’re married?

I might, maybe, but my husband doesn’t want me to, it’s well… (Rysgul chuckled coyly as her words tailed off)

I’m sure it looks stunning, to say the least. Is it shown at home?

Only to my husband. When I get home, my outer image changes. I go into my room and change into a caftan type dress, a white kimishek* covers my hair and we always cover our feet. It’s then time to cook the evening meal which I do gladly. My mother in-law will get started if I’m delayed.

So your ‘first wedding’ is traditional. Is it after this you begin life in your new home?

Yes, there was a ceremony after the wedding party, we entered the home to singing and dancing. It’s the custom that my new sisters in-law put a kimishek on my head as I kneel down. A fabric threshold hangs behind us which is white, but a woven red fabric is then draped over that, symbolizing the new marriage. This ‘artifact’ hangs in the home until I become pregnant. That evening there was also a dombra player who offered marital advice through music and prose.

It sounds lovely, and the second wedding?

A bride in the hotel lobby

That was the next day, Western style, when I wore a white gown that I designed. That wedding was in my hometown. I’m not from Aktau, but my husband is from this area – from the Adai clan. They’re more traditional, from the Mangistau area and very respected. We try to marry from neighbouring clans, but you must prove that your family lines are separated by seven generations. (I remember reading that it has always been shameful not to know your family lineage that far back. It dates back to the days of Genghis Khan when they were recited in verse.)

Is there a ceremony at the mosque? Did you have a honeymoon? Was it difficult, adjusting to joining his family home?

The blessing at the mosque can be done beforehand. No, we don’t typically have a honeymoon and for me it was quite natural to make the change. Every morning I greet my in-laws with a type of curtsy and a cupped hand gesture, as tradition calls for. (I had noticed this Sufi symbol of a blessing depicted in an ancient mosque and often see references to it.) But I’m able to be independent and still work, however some brides that are younger may be required to stay in the home. The foundation of our culture is respect for elders, this is ingrained in our tradition.

Your family must miss you Rysgul?

Yes, but I see them often and soon it is the three month mark. They will come to my new home for the final ceremony and bring my dishes and household goods that I’ve collected. Also, my in-laws will give a present to my mother, an acknowledgement that their daughter is now with a new family.

Is there one special present or does if vary?

Well, it depends on social status but in our case, it will be a fur coat.

Gosh how lovely. Is that the reason so many women here wear fur coats? I’ve never seen so many gorgeous furs.

Yes, it’s one reason and by that time in life, having a fur conveys a certain status.

Very interesting. Tell me, is there any chance that having gold teeth was once a status symbol?

(I allude to the many men and women here in their 50’s or older that have golden teeth. They’re often conscious that this is no longer ‘in fashion’ and hide their smiles.) Yes, exactly, that’s what it was. People melted down their jewellery to have it converted to gold teeth.

Do you plan to have children?

But of course and as you know, we are fortunate as the grandparents help raise their grandchildren. We don’t have to worry about child care.

One last question. How does your society react when a Kazakh woman marries a foreigner?

Kazakh tradition in every stitch

My parents would have been heartbroken, probably wouldn’t have allowed it in some way, but I do know a few friends who have. They love their husbands and lead a different life. But to a certain extent, they’ve walked away from our proud culture; I could never have done that.

The lovely Nurbibi indulges me

Late the next afternoon, as promised, Rysgul is waiting, ready for our rendezvous. She directs the hotel driver to Nur Shah, the acclaimed showroom. As we make our way in the rush hour traffic, I’m told that we’re going to the preferred place to buy kamzols for a ‘first wedding’ or for celebrations. The showroom began as a small home business, but the exquisite designs have now become status symbols.

A short kamzol in black

When we arrive at the nondescript building, its drabness surprises me. It offers no hint of the sumptuous atmosphere inside. “It’s our custom when you enter a place for the first time, that one should make a wish.” Rysgul tells me as she holds the door for me to step inside. A massive chandelier hangs in the centre of the room, illuminating a large Persian carpet on the marbled floor. My eye is immediately drawn to the array of exquisite kamzols and elegant dresses. They’re resplendent with glittering stones, jewels and intricate design work that intertwine symbols of swans necks, flowers, even the horns of mouflon sheep.

Here, a woman’s beauty is compared to the graceful curves of a swan and as they mate for life, their likeness is the inspiration for the ever present motif. Stitching on garments and hats also echoes the past, but Nur Shah has expertly incorporated an intriguing modern flair. I can well imagine the excitement a bride to-be must feel as she enters this feast of wedding indulgences.

With my gracious hosts

Nurbibi, the lovely assistant, kindly allows me to try on a number of Kamzols. They feel elegant and sensual. I sense the tradition the garment embodies. As much as I admire the saukeles, the pointed hats perch on the upper shelves suggesting they are too valuable to try on, they remain firmly out of reach. The bejewelled ones are breathtaking and if you’re fortunate enough to have been married in one, you will proudly display it in your home. Typically, fabric saukeles either have a fur-like plumage or the more expensive ones feature owl feathers.

Elegance and tradition

The saukele fascinates me. I’ve read that tribes called “tigrahauda” (wearing pointed hats) once occupied vast territories of Middle Asia and Kazakhstan. In the 1970’s, Kazakh archeologists found an undisturbed burial place of a Saka chief from the 5th century BC. His clothes were covered with golden plates and he wore a tall ‘golden headdress.’ Similarly, something akin to the present day Kazakh saukele is depicted on two ancient golden belt buckles. Both men and women wore this tall, pointed headgear.

Almost two and a half thousand years separate these treasures, yet the Kazakh saukele is still an important element of a wedding ceremony. I ask Nurbibi how long a bride normally takes to choose an ensemble. Rysgul translates to me that it can take as long as a year, but usually a month. “Yes indeed, how would you ever decide!” I say.

“Will you please give my sincere thanks to Nurbibi for allowing me this opportunity, it’s been such a pleasure.” When this is translated, Nurbibi returns the sentiment, a warm smile on her enchanting face. The subtle elegance of these ladies is in perfect harmony with the luxurious items that adorn the showroom… evocative in their modest, yet beguiling beauty.

An old depiction of a Kazakh marriage.

As we bid farewell and step back outside into dusk, Rysgul asks me if I had made a wish when we entered. “Yes I certainly did,” I assure her with a smile. And indeed I had. I wished this lovely new bride every happiness there is, with perhaps a newborn ‘prince of the hearth’ and a little ‘princess’ as well.

* The kimishek is the traditional white scarf that a married woman wears in the home and elderly women in public. They are often embellished with decoration. Once banned when Kazakhstan was under Soviet rule, the Kazakhs have embraced them again since regaining independence in 1991.

Feb14

Shades of blue, pesky green… and counting Ladas

Posted on February 14, 2015 by terryannewilson

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It was one of those days yesterday, which admittedly, one can have anywhere. Although I returned to Kazakhstan only last week, the initial excitement of seeing hubby and friends had given way to a dismal Wednesday. I’ve somewhat recovered my equilibrium today; back from a ladies lunch and a market, but yesterday… oh how I longed to get back on that plane.

Trust me there have been countries over the years that yielded more than their fair share of, well in Qatar we all used to call them, Doha Days, and not in a good way. So I suppose yesterday was my first, Aktau Day.

I drift back to other countries we’ve lived in. A ‘few moons’ ago in Japan I loved teaching English, though it was definitely a bad day when rats from the upper flat visited us and scurried across the tatami mats and futons. In Holland, gloomy days were easily spun away with a good bike ride through the cobbled streets. Scotland? Too many to mention and that was before the travails of two kids coming down with the chicken pox at the same time. Oman? Bad days didn’t exist except perhaps when the water was too choppy to take the boat out… oh heavenly Oman! And the U.S? The first six months in Houston I was desperate to go back to Oman. Norway? Let’s just say my ‘romance’ with the Vikings and my work cheered me immensely and rescued me from blue days and lashing horizontal rain.

But back to Kazakhstan. There’s a honeymoon phase when you first move to a country and I revelled in that last fall, but of course, it often doesn’t last. Thankfully at least, my daily routine is calm and harmonious. The ebullient staff greet me warmly at breakfast, placing my Americano on my table while I do a first sweep of the buffet. Miroslav, the chef calls out to ask if I’d like an omelette…”pazahal’sta, just a malinky,” I reply using my favourite Russian word meaning small. The odd day, there might be the distraction of an unfamiliar guest to chat with. Today it was a lovely, and understandably jet-lagged American lady here to attend a wedding this weekend. I tip my hat to her as it’s an awful long way to come for a celebration. I have a feeling she hid her surprise when I told her I actually lived here. It does catch a few people off guard, including myself occasionally.

Most days by this time, the ‘business’ crowd has left for work leaving us stragglers, including the striking Air Astana flight attendants who frequent the hotel. They glide past us in perfectly manicured ‘other worldliness’; thank goodness I usually dress for breakfast and with makeup! Yesterday, my eye followed them wistfully… maybe I could jump on a flight back to Istanbul with you. Predictably, the rhythmic efficiency of the staff preparing for lunch is a reminder to make use of my time, to not squander it. Look at the luxury you have, living in a hotel, no chores, no responsibilities…

And it’s interesting, even intriguing with a revolving door of different people and fascinating conversations. Going down for a cocktail or two and buzzing back up to the top floor is darn cool. The staff feel like family, I was welcomed back with hugs and genuine warmth.

But there I was yesterday, feeling restless, feeling confined. The suite had been cleaned while I had breakfasted. My quick stint at the gym was lacklustre. A short walk to the grocers garnered some much needed vitamin D and my two phrases of Russian elicited a few carrots and wilted coriander. Back along the rutted sidewalk to the hotel, outing complete. Not one photo snapped, not one interesting exchange, not even a glance out to the sea. As the elevator doors closed on me, I slipped back into the doldrums.

Trying to be productive, I washed our seven dishes from lunch… yes B. comes home for lunch every day, usually just when I’m caught up in my work and would rather not be disturbed.

“See you this evening,” I’m forever calling out to him as he leaves in the morning. He looks at me like I’ve lost my memory once again. I switch from being away from him for more than a month at a time, to having him home for lunch everyday, please tell me that elicits just a little sympathy ladies…

Continuing with my predictable days, I know that the very efficient Amangul will deliver our laundry at 4:30 and trust me, I longed to have this respite from housework and chores once again. Yet there is something fulfilling about a gleaming floor and dust free blinds when they’re the fruits of your own labour. No, the laundry I will never miss. And yes I admit that crawling into pristine sheets every evening is, well… sublime.

Snap back to that restless afternoon, time is crawling by. I’m procrastinating, I have a writer’s bio to complete for some newly published work and I’m designing a writer’s workshop that I should start on. Instead, I stare absent-mindedly out the window. Oh how I wish I could open it. The view of the Caspian from our suite is usually what inspires me. Today it’s almost monochromatic; the sea and sky melding into one dun, formless canvas.

Seemingly in a hypnotic trance, I fixate on the busy intersection from our upper window, watching the cars scurry below. I start counting Ladas, those ubiquitous toy-like cars left over the Soviet days. Hmm, seems there’s about one every twenty cars… yes, seems they’re all still white. This is rather ridiculous, get on with something, I chide myself.

Then something registers against the drab skyline. I suddenly get these ‘Soviet style’ buildings across the street and down the streets… those with no names. I understand their garish colours and the slathers of paint on the low, crumbling concrete walls. Some relief, some colour against this drab February setting.

I recall pondering this when we were out in the warmth of the October sun, the fact that so much of the city is hued in blue and green.

Do they have a warehouse full of that pesky green shade left over from Soviet times that will be used until eternity. The blue I like!

Blue, along with that sickly shade of hospital green dominate the colour scheme; at the markets, on signs, on flower pots and buildings. On buses, benches and especially doors. I sense it isn’t by chance and read that in this part of the world, blue is a colour steeped in tradition and of religious significance. To the Turkic people, as with Kazakhs, it symbolizes cultural and ethnic unity. It also represents the endless sky, as well as precious water (not to mention the colour of the Kazakh flag.) Yes, this light blue colour is meant to signify health, healing and as a bonus it wards off evil spirits. Perhaps why it graces so many doors?

So, I finally rally and go to my photos that are resplendent with these two shades. There is no end to the photos I took when I first arrived, it must have been that beguiling honeymoon phase. Looking at them now has cheered me, revived me… at least I’m no longer counting Ladas!

There is a shade on the colour wheel for this sickly green – #94b21c – I learn and concede the supposed healing properties of the light blue; a lovely antidote for all it seems.

No things aren’t that bad, after all tomorrow is Friday which means there’s the weekly soiree to look forward to. The ‘gang’ will be down at the bar for evening drinks and then dinner. Last week’s tales spanned from the preponderance of luxurious fur coats, to the endless bottles of vodka stacked in supermarket aisles and unbelievably, to bride stealing in nearby Kyrgyzstan – yes sadly an issue.

And it appears there will be a chat about a trip being planned to Azerbaijan. It’s supposed to be a must see… I know, who would have thought it. I’ll keep you posted!

Feb5

Eleven hours in Istanbul… delight and dolmas

Posted on February 5, 2015 by terryannewilson

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I’m on a long meander back to Kazakhstan… Calgary, Toronto, Istanbul, Almaty and finally two calendar days later, Aktau.

The Sultan Ahmed or Blue Mosque

And so I found myself spending time in Istanbul, an ancient city I hadn’t yet explored but one which had always intrigued me. How could this great Byzantine city, long known as Constantinople, not be fascinating? Constantine the Great moved his empire here from Rome in 330 A.D.; the city was then already 1000 years old. Now it’s just good old Istanbul, meaning ‘to the city’, but I admit to a certain delightful bewilderment knowing I’m in the once Constantinople. It’s positioned along the Bosphorus river and has long conjured romantic images; of Sultans and their harems, of steamy Turkish hamams, of exotic spices and dazzling architecture.

A street side lantern shop

Despite those temptations, as the plane touched down this morning after an over-night flight, it crossed my mind to just languish at the airport for the day. Along with being travel-weary it was rainy and cold, yet this great city at the crossroads of Europe and Asia beckoned; its marvels and mysteries calling to me as it has to travellers for the past 2000 years.

An old city fountain

Bread and delicious dolmas

As the tram* rattled its way to Sultanahmet, the old city, I was delighted when the famed Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia came into view, their minarets majestically piercing the brooding Turkish sky. I wouldn’t explore those iconic sights today, I’d leave them for our return here in seven weeks during a proper stay. For now, I found myself relishing vivid street scenes; a rainbow of colour from hand woven carpets, vibrant displays of teas and spices, glass lanterns, to endless mounds of baklava and Turkish Delight. Needing a respite from both airline food and the rain, I ducked into what looked to be a typical Turkish restaurant. Tiled walls, flat bread blistering on an open oven, carpets hanging splendidly and best of all, dolmas; delicious, delicate morsels wrapped in grape leaves. It all greeted me, as did the welcoming owner, ushering me to a seat with a view to the ‘bread maker’. How did you even consider staying at the airport? You wouldn’t be eating some of your favourite food right now, nor would you have anything to write about, what were you thinking, I chided myself.

“Madam must finish with Turkish tea,” the affable waiter informed me after I was more than sated. He positioned a delicate cup in front of me before I had a chance to reply.

“No charge, it’s from him,” he said, motioning with a tip of his head towards the friendly chef standing between his grill and a counter lavishly displayed with food.

“Sağ olun,” I countered with a smile and nod, pleased I had remembered the more informal thank you, as when someone has gone out of their way to do something for you. Besides, it’s far easier to pronounce than teşekkür ederim, that more proper thank you.

One of the many entrances to the Grand Bazaar

I soon found myself in that one place any traveler must experience if you want to breathe the history of this city. Simply, one must disappear into the Grand Bazaar. The building of the Kapali Carsi began in the winter of 1455, after the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople by Sultan Mehmet. European travellers as far back as the 1600’s brought home news of the bazaar’s unrivalled abundance of goods and exotic atmosphere. Tales that often became the subject of romantic literature. Originally 67 roads wove the bazaar together, each bearing the name of the type of goods found there. The maze, where time seems to stand still, once housed squares, mosques, fountains and 18 gates that were locked in the evenings. However, this seemed superfluous as theft was unheard of, though an incident in 1591 rattled Istanbul to the core when a substantial quantity of gold disappeared in the bazaar. This prompted a closure for two weeks until the culprit, a young seller of musk, was found. Not, however, before a number of tortures had been carried out. Ironically the Sultan spared the theif from torture, but not execution. Other tales abound from those days as the social dictates didn’t allow women to frequent the bazaar, but perhaps a few disguised themselves and made their way in? Apparently one of the Sultans did just this, but as an excuse to eat his favourite pudding.

Dazzling tiled roofs that inspire and intrigue

Nowadays, the Grand Bazaar houses more than 3,000 shops in its 62 lanes, employing some 26,000 people. Each dolap or stall is replete with a sense of history as it sells beautiful ceramics, carpets and cushions, resplendent fabrics, intricately wrought metal, delicate stained-glass lanterns, and of course tea.

I note the mix of nationalities and languages, musing that Sultan Mehmet would surely be pleased as he had urged the return of those who had fled the city during the siege of the Ottomans, wishing to resettle Muslims, Jews and Christians as one. All part of creating a cohesive, cosmopolitan society and the Grand Bazaar is enduring proof of this. Pausing to take a photo of a grouping of tea cups, I’m reminded I had seen çaycı or ‘tea runners’ out on the street, moving deftly through the crowds delivering the piping hot cups of sustenance to shop keepers, a scene unchanged through the centuries.

Admiring the glass lanterns surrounding the tray, I’m approached by the shopkeeper, his gentle tone a welcome change from the persistent urging that I’d experienced throughout the day. “Where are you from,” is how it always starts, a prelude to the inevitable question as to whether you wish to buy a carpet.

Of glistening lanterns

Falling into an easy conversation, the stall keeper introduces himself as Recep as I admire the lanterns and candle holders in his cozy dolap. Eyeing a small holder off in the corner, I envision it on my desk, its mosaic of deep turquoise glass encased in white instantly captivating me. Despite the brilliance of the glowing lanterns, I ruefully admit I can’t carry anything that large.

“Please stay, we’ll have tea,” Recep offers kindly. I’m taken aback yet delighted as I know tea is an integral aspect of Turkish culture and hospitality. After a quick phone call across the lane on a central phone, barely two minutes later, tea arrives. Delivered on a small tray with a triangular handle, the çaycı nods politely as he hands me the tiny cup and saucer, the same I had admired throughout the day in countless shop windows.

As we chat, Recep tells me about the business he’s built from the ground up and I comment that it must be difficult with so much competition, considering the endless shops in the maze surrounding us.

Of tulip shaped tea cups

“No,” he assures me, “there’s enough for everyone if business is done well.” I believe at this point I ‘toast’ him with my delicate tulip shaped tea cup, so ubiquitous in Turkish life that it is often used as a measurement in recipes. And of the tea, apparently Turkey leads the world in per capita consumption of tea, it’s strong and delicious. Here it’s never served with milk and in the Eastern part of the country it’s common to place a sugar cube under the tongue before sipping the tea from the glass. I’ve declined the three cubes on my tiny saucer, but thankful that I didn’t refuse the kind gesture of being offered tea in the Grand Bazaar.

“Recep, I think I’d like that tiny holder in the corner,” I say standing up from the small stool, realizing it’s time to make my way back to the airport. “What is the price please?”

“There’s no price for you, my gift.” Sağ olun was again my heartfelt response. After a warm hand shake, I part from my new friend and navigate my way out into the brisk air. I hear, “Where are you from miss?” yet again and this time decide to just go with it. Turns out he’s selling those aforementioned treats… surely I should buy some. After all, who comes to Turkey and doesn’t submit to some delicious Turkish Delight?

By this time it’s rush hour and I join the commuters on the tram, at once appreciating their kindness. Some enquire if I need help, did I know the way? Others notice the city map in my hand and smile.

Beneath the exotic facades and arguably daunting perceptions that recent events have wrought here, a familiar fabric of life prevails. People make their way home relieved to reach the end of their working day, yet gladly offered their seats to the elderly. Sweethearts whisper in each other’s ears. Parents peck their children on the cheek as they hold them closely in the squash of people.

I’ve loved the Turkish people. I felt welcomed, I’ve felt at home.

Recep and much appreciated Turkish hospitality

This evening as my plane lifted off over the Bosphorus, onwards to Kazakhstan, I feel imbued with the mystery of what is still to be explored. I eagerly dig out two books I had acquired that day, already preparing for my visit in seven weeks. One of them is a gem, recommended by the bookseller. “You won’t be able to put it down,” he warned me, and I can’t.*

I so look forward to returning and we shall try to drop in to see Recep, that is if I can find that stall again out of the 3000 or so! Actually, its Takkeciler No. 7 Kapali Carsi -Beyazit…just in case you find yourself there and want a Turkish lantern (I know I still do) and maybe a spot of tea. Tell him Terry Anne sent you!

* Take the Metro from the airport to Zeytinburnu, switch here to the blue tram line and continue to Sultanahmet. Trip approximately one hour

*’Portrait of a Turkish Family’ by Irfan Orga

Jan6

52 Countries and a year that is new… with abundance

Posted on January 6, 2015 by terryannewilson

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Serenity and reflection while snowshoeing

It seems there’s been an underlying theme this holiday at our home in the mountains; good food and fine wine are a given. But snowshoeing and more snowshoeing, has allowed me unexpected serenity. The snow on the ski hill has been somewhat lacking and so we’ve been strapping on the ‘shoes’ and happily meandering through the nearby golf course and Kimberley Nature Park. The neighbourhood gals and I have also been out and when we’re not chatting, my prevailing thought is of the year that has passed. As I soak in the vistas and admire the snow laden pines, I reflect and give thanks that my dream of writing a blog came to pass.

A New Year’s message from Word Press included a summary of the first year of notes on a boarding pass and those 20,000 plus written words only have meaning if someone reads them. And thankfully you have. In fact, I know that you readers are from 52 different countries, thus far. Imagine how inspiring this is for me, to envision that somewhere in Russia, Estonia or Botswana for example, my blog was discovered… literally, it means the world to me.

I know who some of my readers are of course, but many others I do not. I don’t see who you are when you view a post, but I can see the country that you’re reading from. If you’re curious how a reader ‘finds’ my blog, one way is from the ‘tags’ that I note on each post which materialize in internet searches. I myself recently researched something online and one of my articles popped up, somewhat surreal I can assure you!

The unexpected joy of writing a blog is the communication it opens up with people. It seems I traveled ‘around’ the world this past year with stops in the U.K., Denmark, Sweden, France, The Netherlands, U.S., Turkey, Kazakhstan, Malaysia, Thailand and Hong Kong. So perhaps, dear reader, I met you in one of those countries.

Snow laden pines in Kimberley

There was the lovely German lady on the train to London and unfortunately we didn’t begin chatting until just before the train approached Paddington Station. There was an immediate connection and I was able to give her my card before we reluctantly bid farewell. “You can have a look at my blog if you’re ever bored,” I said with a parting smile as we each disappeared our own way from the busy platform.

I recall the charming Londoner I met while on the Dickens tour , there were many questions I wanted to ask him. Unfortunately, time doesn’t always permit this and yet I was pleased to have met him, if only briefly. Not long after, he graciously sent a note to notes on a boarding pass.

There also was the beguiling young person in the cafe in Malaysia who was interested in my travels, as was the couple in Thailand while we chatted over a beer as we sheltered from the midday downpour. There have been so many chance encounters and happily for me, people are receptive and curious.

“How are you able to travel so frequently?

“Do you plan what you write about or is it an inspiration that comes to you?”

“Don’t you get tired of living out of a suitcase for much of the year?” (yes to that one!)

And pleasingly there are people here at home who are supportive and follow notes on a boarding pass. One such lovely lady is a vibrant eighty-two year old whose birthday I had the good fortune of celebrating just as I arrived back to Canada this holiday season. I was in transition as a few days earlier I had traded my sandals and sun dresses for winter boots and sweaters. Donna Lee took my hand in hers and said warmly, “Thank you Terry Anne for the opportunity to travel with you through your blog. I read every one of them, those interesting insights to places that most of us will never experience.” It warmed my heart and I think we both might have had a tear in our eye.

It means so much to hear sentiments such as these, as I have from many of you whether it’s in person or through a written message. And when I do, I know writing is worthwhile… and it also gives back to me. That was predicted by a dear friend of mine as I procrastinated and swithered a few years ago.

“Where’s your blog, you’ve thought about it for a year now,” She admonished me with a stern but encouraging voice. Pamela is a life coach and was justifiably focused on my procrastination.

“I know, but I can’t decide on a name for it, I’ve got so many ideas – Bloom Where You’re Transplanted, A Collection Called Life, A Passion for Life, Planes Trains and Notebooks,” I lamented.

“Just pick one and get on with it, this is called paralysis by analysis. It’s time to do it, it will bring you such fulfilment and abundance…”

It was that word abundance, it stuck with me and Pamela was right. This blog, nine months young, has brought me such joy and abundance. Along with the research, travel and writing, it’s also the connection with people that has been more gratifying than I could have imagined; the satisfaction of making an impression, imparting or learning something new, inspiring someone wherever they may be.

The vista we ‘shoe’ to…the Rocky Mountains in British Columbia

My resolution last year did come true and this year my hope is to secure more articles for publication and then there’s that ‘darn book’ to spend more time on. That is my wish and I hope that whatever resolution you have committed to becomes a reality for you this year. As I know, sometimes it can take longer than expected and often it can seem like an insurmountable challenge, just as this blog once seemed to me. But as I can attest, when you stretch and challenge yourself just that little, you can bloom in unexpected ways.

I’ll be returning to Kazkhstan at the end of the month, however it will be a short ‘stint’ as it seems we’ll be off to live in a different country in the spring. Yes, dear reader, perhaps more adventures in store, more intrigues to write about. Ah, by the way, how did I finally decide on that seemingly difficult task of naming my blog?

There I was in Amsterdam last February, out for dinner, chatting and absent mindedly making notes on a piece of paper all the while. As I arrived at Schiphol Airport the next morning for my flight, I dug out my e ticket boarding pass. Surely it can’t be this piece of paper marked with notes? It was indeed and I remember thinking once and for all, that’s it… notes on a boarding pass. Pamela was pleased and I had finally stopped procrastinating.

Abundance

I’m ever so relieved I did. But for now, I wish you a new year full with dreams realized and much abundance in whatever you hope it to be. Happy New Year, wherever you may be in one of those 52 countries… and I truly do thank you. Terry Anne

P.S. And of those other two questions?

I’m able to travel so frequently partly due to my husband’s work locations and a commitment I made to myself as an ’empty nester’ to seek out new experiences and inspirations.

Of inspiration? Everything I’ve mentioned inspires me and most blogs formulate in my mind for a week or two. Perhaps others for months such as the post previous to this one. The sheer joy of it all; even I don’t know where the next one will take me.

And those countries, just in case you’re curious

Canada
United States
United Kingdom
Norway
Kazakhstan
Netherlands
France
Thailand
United Arab Emiretes
Malaysia
Russian Federation
Italy
Australia
Germany
Japan
Singapore
Denmark
Spain
Indonesia
Qatar
Sweden
Switzerland
India
Philippines
Finland
Bahamas
Jordan
Botswana
Lao People’s Democratic Republic
Mexico
New Zealand
Korea, Republic of
Hong Kong
Panama
Portugal
Turkey
Kenya
Brazil
Israel
Hungary
Colombia
Sri Lanka
Belgium
Slovenia
Isle of Man
Cambodia
Oman
Brunei Darussalam
Estonia
Ghana
Jamaica
and last but not least, Romania

Nov17

Lipstick palms on Phuket… of botany and the verve of Jack

Posted on November 17, 2014 by terryannewilson

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A place of serenity for the writer’s retreat

“Do you think someone plants all those ferns in the palm trees?” I ask Jo as we paddle idly in the pool. Another day of writing completed and we were now cooling off after a massage in the nearby massage studio. How will I ever leave this serenity?

“No, they’re epiphytes, plants that live on others. They root by themselves and just grow,” Jo says knowingly.

“See how some of the trees have ferns and those ‘spiky’ plants. And they’re orderly, as if it was landscaped.” I muse as I gaze out to the pool-side palm trees, each massive trunk in a cosy ecosystem with its ‘house-guests’.

Into the massage studio

“We have a theory in our family,” Jo continues, “trees are like people; some are more fun than others, maybe that’s where the party is, more booze, better snacks?”

“Hah, that’s good!” I say, quite taken by the notion of trees as a party venue.

Jo and I have often chatted about nature, but never more than at this writer’s retreat in Phuket. The garden cascades in all directions from the central pool, a who’s who (or rather, a what’s what) of a botanical garden. The coconut palms reign supreme, tall and imposing over the stockier white washed date palms, bamboo somewhere in between. Frangipani trees dot the lawns and verges, their fragrant flowers a fond reminder of my once Middle Eastern gardens. Those years when the kids played in gardens of jasmine, orchids and rainbows of bouganvilla. When they climbed houses built in exotic trees that we didn’t know the names of… when we drank sundowners with the melodic call to prayer as a backdrop. Gardens have always been important to us; they’ve helped root us to a country, provided solace in foreign lands.

Lipstick palms

This garden seems to reach out to us writers who are happily ‘entrenched’ here for a week. It is animated yet calming, even the water nymphs call out. One day, a lovely water-lily suddenly appears in its glazed pot, a little blaze of silken petals. As one might announce a birth, I summon the group that morning…”The lily has bloomed, do stop to appreciate it everyone!”

“I love that grouping of palms just there, beside my villa,” I declare in the general direction of Jo as we luxuriate late that afternoon on teak recliners.

“Skinny stalks of subtle lime,” I alliterate. “Burnt orange and lush lemon,” I continue, getting carried away with the literary thing.

“Those are luscious lipstick palms,” Jo happily jumps in, seemingly bursting with botanical knowledge.

“Well they would be, wouldn’t they!” I sigh at the resplendent scene before us, as if to breathe it in for posterity. “Ah, I think those are the palms that when Europeans first set eyes on them, they were named for the red sealing-wax palm.” I picture the slow drip of hot wax, the delicate stamp of a signet ring.

The Royal Embassy Resort is owned by Phil, a New Zealand transplant, and his lovely Thai wife, Ari. It’s a secluded, intimate setting and we’ve been treated like royalty. Even by day six, I can’t stop admiring the effortless bounty of nature that surrounds us. It’s also mirrored in the cuisine; delicious offerings served on banana leaves, intricately carved fruit and magenta orchids adorning tall, frosty drinks.

Normally I’m engrossed with the architecture of a country and though I’ve traveled through Thailand before, I am endlessly captivated by the effortless melding of nature into everyday life here. Could it be the stark contrast to Kazakhstan where I now live for some of the year? From the sparseness of the vast steppe to the overwhelming abundance… yet I remind myself that each country has its own beauty and uniqueness.

The view from our ‘writing room’ has transfixed me throughout the week. Yellow, snow-white and tangerine butterflies dance amongst fluttering palms. Delicate frangipani flowers cling to trees, pink hibiscus blossoms drift in the breeze, birds linger and browse the floral wares: inspiration at every glance.

As if writing and meeting new people weren’t enough to occupy the week, we were encouraged to limber our bodies and minds with an early yoga session on the lawn each day. I had affirmed to our yoga instructors, Anne and Melanie (Anne was the wonderful facilitator of the retreat) that I wasn’t a fan. Much to their delight, I quickly ‘purged those negative thoughts‘. It was difficult not to; with the night dew still clinging to the grass, we focused on ‘a drosti’ and executed the ‘warrior pose’ while glancing at tall bamboo, a favourite palm or gazing out to the misty hills beyond.

The waterlily has bloomed

Beyond the tranquility of our garden retreat, the neighbourhood slowly came to life. Tuk-tuks puttered in the lanes beyond our view, pans clashed on outdoor stoves, roosters cock-a-doodled, a broom swished across the corner store porch, and stray dogs barked in raucous anticipation of the new morning. Now this was the way to greet the day.

On day five a new friend, Barb from Halifax, announced that she had received a visitor as she opened the door to her villa that morning.

“Jack came to say good morning, he was right there to greet me,” Barb said as she laid happily in ‘child’s pose’ at the end of the yoga session. I admitted to being envious. We all treasured the rare encounters with Jack and, though he hadn’t actually enrolled in the retreat, we considered him as one of us, nonetheless.

The following day as I opened my door to greet the thick, humid morning, there he was. I was honoured to have been chosen for some personal attention. White hair soft as feathers, black ears erect not droopy, Jack allowed me to caress his silken curves until it was time for yoga. Yes, Jack is a rabbit that we all came to adore.

“Gosh, it must be sad for him to be alone here,” I wonder aloud to Phil one day after an impromptu tour of his admirable collection of Thai antiques.

“Well, Jack’s the only one left; all of his erstwhile mates have been savaged by the neighbourhood strays.”

“That’s so sad, how has he managed to survive?” I ask, reminded of the similar fate that met Pebbles and Bambam, our sons’ childhood rabbits (yes back in that seemingly serene garden.)

“Oh he hides, he’s wily, that Jack rabbit!” Phil says in his lyrical Kiwi strain.

The beloved Jack

There was evidence enough that the beloved creature played an important role at the Royal Embassy. On returning from an outing one evening, sun dipping below the horizon, we came upon Phil and Ari sitting by the poolside. Jasmine, their silken dog lazed on Ari’s lap and in the chair between, completing the family vignette, sat Jack in perfect contentment. I shall never forget that scene, there he sat… a rabbit called Jack on a chair for cocktail hour at peace with his family. It was absolutely heartwarming.

On the final evening at the Royal Embassy Resort, only Barb and I had stayed on. The other writers had flown back to their homes in the U.S., KL and Dubai; the rest had returned to their homes in Phuket, the island they had come to love. Barb and I made our way to what had become our favourite restaurant, ‘Bua’, perched on stilts overlooking the gentle waves of Kamala beach. Bua, the omnipresent lotus, sacred symbol of this fertile land, rising up from muddy waters to attain perfection. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the week that had just been.

“Well, my dear, cheers to a wonderful week, we were meant to be here indeed!” We chunked our coconuts together, setting the Pina Colada aswirl. It didn’t matter who had voiced the sentiment, we would part the next morning knowing we’d made a friend for life.

Early the next morning we took one final walk together, turning left from our resort

Hibiscus and Saturday morning laundry

instead of the usual right, taking us into a ‘normal’ neighbourhood which was just beginning to stir that Saturday morning. Boys cycled down palm lined streets, past lovely homes both grand and simple, some with kitchens and dining rooms exposed to the elements. A mother and grandmother tended to the laundry, graciously pausing to pluck a luscious pink hibiscus for each for us from their garden. As if in prayer, we met our hands to our heart, as they do here to convey a genuine thank you. I will dearly miss that heartfelt gesture and the gentle Thai people who smile so freely… who welcome you to their land with open hearts.

A gift of hibiscus

We passed yet more varieties of palms that Jo, my botanist hadn’t yet identified for me. They were interspersed with a few spindly rubber trees. Introduced for commerce, rubber trees arrived in Phuket at the start of the century, plantations once covering forty percent of the island.

“I hadn’t realized that rubber trees are tapped like maple trees to harvest the white goo that oozes out.” I slapped the trunk with my palm. “I really hadn’t grasped how it’s transformed into rubber, I got the full picture when I read about it this week,” I confessed to Barb.

Barb, in front of yet another variety of palm

Barb with yet another variety of palm

“Thank goodness it wasn’t just me, I hadn’t realized that either until I was here,” she conceded. As I snapped a photo of Barb in front of yet another variety of palm, I vowed to improve my botany knowledge for the next trip.

The view at The Indigo Pearl

It was time to depart and I left the quiet, unique resort to spend my last two nights at the Indigo Pearl. With only a small inkling of what awaited, I had booked the resort online, splurging a little at my husband’s encouragement, yet I had not imagined the sheer luxury or the captivating history. This resort, rather unexpectedly pays homage to the tin mining industry that had once been so important to the Phuket economy. The lobby and restaurants were opened to the verdant grounds and scattered amidst this stunning backdrop stood fascinating remnants from bygone mining days. Old tin presses become art, tin florets hang on walls and sit on taps, untold flirtations integrating design and history.

Tin becomes art

My suite overlooked the pool; fronds of massive, milky palms flapping like wallah-less punkahs over my patio, I was now truly in another world. And then I noticed the bathtub; perched on the patio and posed towards the verdant vista, candle already burning with exotic oils filling the air. Truly, how can I leave this paradise!

The beauty of a treetop spa

After a back and neck massage in the treehouse style spa on the second day (where even the chilled towels are proffered with magenta orchids atop), I venture outside the gates… it’s time to head to the beach. And as wonderful as it had felt to be ensconced within the walls of the pampering five star hotel, I was happily back into the heady chaos of Phuket street life. Vendors jostle for business, aromas of barbecues waft through the air as the Andaman sea crashes its waves onto the pristine shore.

I find the perfect spot on the white sand and settle myself. But something isn’t quite right; I conjour sweet memories of my boys building sandcastles and frolicking in the sea waves. Images of a family holiday on Phuket tug at my serenity, urging to be let in. Wonderful memories, now lingering and bittersweet in my solitude. No fellow writers to share my thoughts with, no friends beside me with whom to relate these golden images. This experience has run its course I confess to myself, though seemingly not before I cheer myself by having my second massage of the day… yes the second!

A bathtub with a view.

Come on this is ridiculous, you should be finishing those writing assignments, completing that gift list, even sending your hard working husband a postcard!

But no, recalling that I had strolled past a thatched roof structure, housing twenty or so rudimentary low, wooden tables, I am drawn back by the promise of one last Thai massage. It’s full with foreigners in varying degrees of un-dress, it just doesn’t matter here!

”Only 300 Baht (under 10 bucks) OK?” And I yield to the matronly Thai lady who catches my eye, her hand enticingly swishing her bottle of oil, a welcoming smile on her expectant face.

“I’m in!” and if not on a new spiritual plane, at least I’m soon cheered!

Someone recently mentioned a study that showed most people’s first deep sigh comes seven minutes into the massage; mine was at two, at the most! Relaxing and more ‘real’ than the resort experience, I succumb. Kids run about as moms and grandmothers alike knead and cajole the ‘stress’ out of us spoiled tourists. They keep a watchful eye on their brood during the hour long session, chatting in Thai to their colleagues beside them, nattering at the kids as they play simple games with leaves and sticks. Vendors bells ting ting as dinner time approaches. The local mosque’s call to prayer echoes in the air.

View to the Andaman Sea from the massage hut

The massage is glorious. The sound of the waves just a few meters away is natural mood music. The view of simple fishing boats bobbing and coconuts swaying on a nearby palm tree further encapsulate the mood, but it’s time to go home. I smile, barely managing to pick myself up off the woven Thai mat, slowly slipping on my flip flops. Dodging the daily late afternoon rain, I opt to have a quick Singha beer at the cafe across the street and happen to chat to a couple from Germany. They’ve just arrived on the island and of course I suggest the Royal Embassy Resort to them.

“They even have a pet rabbit named Jack,” I tell the friendly couple. “He likes to be petted,” I say fondly, already missing the little guy.

Coconuts hidden under massive fronds

It’s time to go back through that gate that takes me to the opulence of the Indigo Pearl, though somehow I don’t really want to leave this scene where people chat freely, where everyday culture is revealed, where one is absorbed into the pleasantly chaotic scenes. So I stroll wistfully through the gates returning the smile from the security guard, with one last glance at the tranquil sea. It’s my last night here and I might just have to have one more soak in that glorious tub…

Nov6

A writer’s retreat in ‘Siam’… a market wander

Posted on November 6, 2014 by terryannewilson

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An entrance of brooms and hanging baby chairs

In the humid labyrinth of aisles, back corners and shelves, I yearned for that special piece to present itself. To call to me, to beckon escape from this musty, neighbourhood market. We were on a writing assignment to find something elusive or inspiring to write about in this potpurri of, well… everything.

I passed the welcoming display; a hodgepodge of wispy brooms, sponges and spades, of dust pans in yellow, pink and blue. I noted tickly feather dusters, hoses, and hanging baby seats… wicker tightly bound. They perch precariously on many family ‘vehicles’, the ubiquitous scooter.

A ‘bike vendor’ with the market’s entrance beyond

There were knives, rakes, tape measures and plastic prayer alters. Rainbows of stacked carpets, bento boxes, scales… and pots and woks and saucepans. Of vases, washtubs, fans both new and defunct… and rows and rows of glasses waiting for champagne and beer, dejected and dusty. Past plungers, packs of straws and Chinese waving cats for prosperity… for luck.

Still, nothing spotted that spoke of a keepsake from this writer’s retreat, from a nation once known as Siam. A country of lush bamboo, tall palms, temples and tuk-tuks. I wished for a mommento – the fragrant garlands and orchids don’t last.

The humidity climbed, fellow writers melted as we shared my small woven fan when we converged somewhere between the plastic stools and ironing boards. Could they not plug one of these fans in, we despaired as we eyed the myriad of oscillating cooling devices. Is the time almost up, can we escape soon?

No there was more. In the corners lurked hula hoops, parasols and porcelain of fake delft blue. The tool section stacked with clunky hammers, chisels, trowels and wrenches. They competed with dull saws, plugs and keys… and long, dark, rusty nails. My father would love poking around these crammed shelves, examining pipe widths and plyers; a handyman’s trove of treasures.

My mother would peruse the rice steamers, the Thai cushions and then announce she’d buy a cooking utensil. Something to ladle with, to stir with… to playfully chase those naughty grandchildren with.

Mercifully our time had elapsed and I manoeuvred through the tight aisles out to the welcoming sunshine, defeat admitted as I dabbed my drenched brow and neck.

Steamy pouches of spicy sauces

And then I spotted it, dangling from under a vendor’s umbrella. He was parked there, just on the left, selling delicacies of fish, skewered meat and sauces in tiny, steaming pouches. Offering rice in banana leaf parcels, a toothpick to close.

The object was forlorn and worn. Small and intricate, stitchings of green and orange. It wanted to join my collection of gleaned treasures from far away lands and adventures, from gifts received.

Only fifty baht was taken with a genuine smile, with a Kob Kun Kaaaa. I tucked it quietly away and made my way back to the writing group, a sly grin embracing my face. I’d found it. My small, delicate rice vessel speaks of days gone past, of workmanship under thatched roofs, of Thailand.

My friend and mentor, Ms. Jo at lunch

Each day is unique at a writer’s retreat and on this day, after the market and writing session, we left the resort for a working lunch in a restaurant on the sea. It was a gloomy afternoon, ideal for sharing our ‘market writings’ as we dined on grilled shrimp, spicy calamari and icy Chang beer. Unique interpretations of our assignment; some mysterious, many funny, a few suspended reality and suddenly we were transported through a secret portal to an alien ‘space’. Yet another was deep with metaphors, sad and brooding, like the stormy weather that was closing in on us. Words enchanted and rolled around us… just like the melancholy waves rolling towards us. Beguiling and inspiring, just as the day we were having.

The brooding sea on a Phuket beach

Oct27

Waiting for the dombra… with musical musings

Posted on October 27, 2014 by terryannewilson

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A dombra player serenades at the entrance of the old market

Call me crazy, but I had obsessed about it since I arrived in Kazakhstan… the dombra. The national instrument features in historical depictions and even on building gables, but I hadn’t actually heard one yet. Then last Saturday as we entered the old city market, there he was; an elderly fellow, resplendent in his costume, strumming his dombra. Few took notice except us; two ‘part-time tourists’, eager for culture. No it didn’t sound brilliant, a little twangy and scratchy, but then could you expect more from a two stringed instrument? As I placed a few tenge into the man’s pot, the musician glanced up and smiled. I stepped back to appreciate, intrigued with the simplicity of the tune. Yet I imagined that there must be more to this skinny long necked lute than his gentle strumming would suggest, perhaps it was the wrong setting?

On our recent trip into the ‘outback’, I had attempted to set the scene with some authentic Kazakh music. After jumping into the 4 x 4 and hearing the young driver’s stereo system, I innocently thought of dombra music. Even though Bon Jovi, Sting and the odd Russian ballad was on his playlist, I had the audacity to ask nonetheless…

“Sergei, would you mind playing some dombra music, pazhalsta?” He smiled politely, chuckled and shook his head decisively. All the while he must have been thinking… NYET! You silly foreign woman, don’t you realize I’m a 25 year old with a very decent truck and stereo, not to mention I’m Russian! We don’t play dombra music, that’s Kazakh and so not cool!

Complete cultural faux pas on my part… no dombra music on that journey then!

I can’t help it that I love music of all kinds and for me, the music should compliment the time and place. My kids would often cringe in an Italian or Thai restaurant when I’d suggest that the ‘music should really compliment the menu and surroundings’. They were used to my pursuit of music authenticity. Ud music in Oman, Mozart in Salzburg and maybe it wasn’t culturally authentic, but it was always Tom Petty while sand-duning in Qatar. So this week when the newsflash came through that there would be a dombra performance at the local philharmonic hall, I could barely contain my excitement. I summoned hubby home early from work.”We’re going, be home on time!”

Actually, Bruce is usually quite accommodating with these things. When we lived in Scotland he surprised me with front row tickets to a Fiddler’s Rally, a romantic indeed! There were the fiddlers and accordion players in their kilts, mesmerizing us with Strathspeys, Marches and Reels; bagpipers in the back row droning at opportune moments. As memorable as it was, I’m ashamed to admit that my enduring recollection of the evening was of an old kilted fiddler, front row centre. In the passion of playing, he ill advisedly crossed one leg over the other, a few gasps were heard from the crowd as he revealed more than we wanted to see. A wee nudge from a fellow musician, the leg went back down, and the mercifully the music played on.

My young performing days

It is however, far more difficult to cross one’s leg while playing the accordion. I should know as I am one… a proud player who has been teased about it throughout my life. I was only eight when my mom ‘gave me the gift of music’. There I was, a skinny wee thing, lugging my massive Italian squeezebox up and down the stairs to my lessons. More often than not, I was reprimanded by Ms. Bergan for not having practiced enough, yet I did eventually perform in a concert or two. Certificates prove that I was part of a duet called Two Freckles, yet I would set it aside for sports and other pursuits. I can still play that beloved instrument which is stashed away in a closet, ‘set free’ maybe once a year. I lug it out of it’s tattered blue case and summon a tune or two on its aged keys. I’ve since learned to play the piano, yet there is nothing quite like heaving those bellows in and out as a rollicking song somehow materializes from that mass of buttons and keys. No, it isn’t glamorous, but I tell myself we’re a select bunch that can play.. that reminds me to thank my mom for those long ago lessons!

A second chance in the ‘spotlight’

As I got ready for our dombra outing, I recalled what I had read about the intriguing instrument, vital to Kazakh culture. It’s an essential part of their oral and musical culture; excavations of ancient cities have revealed terracotta statuettes two thousand years old, plucking similar instruments. Nowadays whether it be a staged performance or a traditional gathering in a yurt, the dombra represents the heart and soul of the Kazakh nation. Musicians tour the country vying to outdo each other, eager to share their virtuosity in styles that vary from region to region. Would any of them be performing this evening, I wondered. Yes, they’re as integral to this culture as the bagpipes are to Scotland, as the sitar is to India. Or, as it’s Octoberfest this time of year, as oompah music is to Germany. Which reminds me, allow me one more musical digression if you will.

Finding the music in Hamburg

I was in Germany, almost two years ago enjoying a ladies Christmas Market trip. The previous day had included choral music in a cathedral in the beautiful northern town of Lubeck, yet I felt that I hadn’t experienced that defining music that would encapsulate my travel experience. And so the last day found us in Hamburg’s Christmas market, steamy mugs of glühwein warming us in the frigid December air.

Any ideas on the name of this ‘stick’ instrument?

We wandered through the fairy tale atmosphere where every festive delight surrounds you; from the folksy hand carved decorations in evergreen stalls, to endless creations of marzipan, to the twinkling tanenbaums and painted nutcrackers. With food so irrisistedly delicious you smile as you compliment it with yet another mug to keep you warm. All of it was perfect and then we heard it! It was the music that I had so longed for; horns blasting, accordions blaring and a ‘stick a thumping’. Five minutes later there we were… dancing, twirling and shaking tambourines. Singing, laughing and soaking up the moment; musical and cultural perfection that I had hoped for. I then considered my trip complete.

But back to the dombra, surely you’re curious about the concert after all this rambling?!

It was brilliant, simply brilliant. We had expected simple musical fare, but bouquets of flowers decorating the stage and richly dressed musicians hinted otherwise. When the statuesque compere took the stage, her diction was lyrical, rolling and guttural, beautiful even if incomprehensible to us. Her flowing red dress and fur-lined ‘saukele’ with a feather-tipped ‘spire’ transported us to a different world.

Rows of male dombra players to the left and, to the right, in pale blue flowing dresses, an array of ladies with two-stringed kobyz ‘fiddles’ nestled in their laps. Violinists, drummers, bassists and accordion players, all poised to respond to the precise commands of the conductor. The music was of the country and it flowed like the wind ripples through the steppe, like horses rush on the prairie. My imagination conjured winter sleighs and cozy yurts. It was truly music sculpted by the landscape and the culture of the open plains.

An Akyn with dombra players to his left

Dressed in full-length boots, deep blue tunics and fur-brimmed hats, the dombra players were mesmerizing. Their style was at once simple and evocative – profound and lyrical.

The lovely Compere, hostess of the evening

The iconic Bibigul

And then came the Akyn, tall and broad in a long Kazakh robe and fur hat. These minstrels of bygone years once traveled to nomadic camps to entertain and enlighten. The Akyn tells tales that range from epic battles, to rich folklore to simple village gossip. I could hear it now in the music. First his dombra punctuated his words in rough accompaniment, then gave forth an eloquent display of virtuosity, widespread hands flashing across the strings. The crowd responded in the time honoured way, the way an audience around a camp fire or village square might have yelled out… “it can’t be so!” or “tell us more Akyn!” or simple whoops of approval. I didn’t understand the words but realized that this interaction was steeped in tradition. The Akyn was the master of the story, the dombra his canvas, the audience his confidants.

And so it continued, different styles all telling of a vast musical heritage, unbroken across the centuries. Dombra masters such as Serzhan Shakrat and young pretenders alike were given their place in the programme. Our favourite was without a doubt the young soloist who played with such delightful arrogance; clearly vying for deserved notoriety and acclaim. Beloved opera star Bibigul Tulegenova had obviously won the nation’s heart long ago. This great musical icon was surely the star of the evening, presented with bouquets of flowers after each song and lavishly lauded in closing speeches from admiring dignitaries. However, what touched me were the countless young people in the audience who rose to their feet the moment the revered Bibigul was introduced. Cameras poised, videos readied, they nudged each other as if in disbelief that the great star was before them. That in itself was comfort; that the respect and love for this music is very much alive and will continue to be passed on to new generations.

We were dazzled by the absorbing and unique atmosphere. There were more than a few glances in our direction as locals sensed that we were ‘visitors’. They smiled knowingly as if to say, “This is our heritage and we’re proud to share it with you.” We were honoured to be there.

Oct10

An adventure steeped in time… of camel caravans, limestone sculptures and peace

Posted on October 10, 2014 by terryannewilson

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Embracing silence in The Ustyurt

They say that in the Ustyurt area of Kazakhstan, you will be cured of your vanity, your petty desires…

I understand why – so dramatic is the scenery, so soulful is the silence, so humbling is the history. It lingers in the ancient sea bed, it lives in the chinks of rocks.

The silence was all embracing, only the noise of travellers disturbing the chalk and limestone mountains; hewn of tawny whites, creams and gelato pinks. Muted tones in the rocky sculptures of castles, arches and chalky yurts… a tapestry of life in pastel hues. Yet a lime green succulent bloomed defiantly on the parched, desert floor. A dash of violet showed off in the distance.

A ‘yurt’ and a ‘fortress’

I’m sure it was forever this beautiful, but it wasn’t always this silent. Once the water flowed and the tides crashed. Sharks swam and fish gurgled.

The Bakty Mountain, tawny whites and gelato pinks

Caravans with countless camels trekked along the ‘silk route’. Laden with bounties of sables, silk and honey, falcons, birch and slaves. These caravan tracks of the Manqystau were well trodden, ‘ships of the desert’ shuffling to and fro, east to west… west to east. Merchants traded, a mingling of cultures and religions, of Indian and Babylon goods. Clay bricks that reveal secrets of roadside settlements, fortresses and homes.

Yet, uncovered layers hint at Stone Age migrations; those long ago nomads following tracks of gazelles, antelope and sheep.

“Ships of the desert’

They live on still, graceful mouflon sheep prancing through the steppe, antlers of forebearers crumbling into the cracked and crusty earth. One and two humped camels shuffling through the sand, steppe eagles gliding overhead. Horses foraging for survival, herders tending torpidly.

A breathless trek to a high outpost. Through remnants of a stone walled fortress, where animals once were hidden, sheltered from enemy tribes. That safe haven, now a portal to a view of peaks. Peaks reaching to the desert sky, piercing the autumn breeze, drawing the glance of a soaring eagle.

A pinnacle piercing the desert sky

We camped in the shadow of a yurt, erected by nature itself. Its domed roof echoing our small, intimate, manmade shelters. Now the valley was alive with crackling embers and sizzling meat. With campfire chat, Russian and English washing across the chill desert air. Yet deafening stillness… in the surrounding cliffs, in the moonlit crevices, in the dark holes of sleeping lizards.

Mausoleum at Shopan-ata

And it ended where it was meant to; in a sacred place. The Manqystau ground is so. Legends hold it was blessed by as many saints as there are days in the year. Shopan-ata, an underground mosque where we were welcomed, shoes slipped off on rich carpet, beckoned inside. A maze of recessed spaces and cool in the caverns half light. Lizards dart in and out of niches. Sufi prayers etched on worn stone, a carved open palm for happiness. Our departure, a gifted white linen cloth, blue stitched for blessings. On the trail of pilgrims, since the fourteenth century. A place where all can enter, of any religion or creed. Peaceful… as it should be.

The Necropolis of Shopan-ata

Outside that tiny carved door, near that hallowed ground, grows a mulberry tree. Wrapping it’s wizened limbs around sinking tombstones, a scene unchanged. Did it once nourish those worms that would become silk…it is the mulberry leaves they eat.

Perhaps the pilgrims that rested here, had traveled this route. Perhaps they gazed at the same wondrous sights, in awe of the luminous moon, endless stars.

The underground mosque at Shopan-ata

On the ‘high outpost’

There is no perhaps… the wonders and vistas were theirs and they are ours. And that, is a joy, a joy to be had in the Manqystau.

Sculptures in the silence

Oct1

First Dispatch from a former Soviet city… where the streets have no names

Posted on October 1, 2014 by terryannewilson

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The Hotel we call home, with a preserved Soviet jet fighter in the nearby park

Not counting a few jet lagged days, I’ve been a resident of Kazakhstan for two weeks. Let’s begin with first impressions on arrival, tired and bleary eyed after an overnight layover in Istanbul. Thankfully, my long awaited visa barely received a glance and Bruce was there to greet me; as was the driver in a 4 x 4 fitted with a roll cage. I would immediately see why as impatient drivers weaved in and out along the chaotic, single lane highway. New and rustic vehicles zipped past as our driver kept steadfastly to the company mandated speed limit. Soviet style military trucks lumbered alongside shiny new Range Rovers, Land Cruisers and an inordinate number of Ladas. These boxy, toy-like cars were manufactured in the Mother Country and were popular behind the Iron Curtain. You could even choose your colour, as long as it was white! They were a symbol of city life and yet here they were in the ‘outback’ of Kazakhstan.

I imagine they wouldn’t stand a chance against one of these bactrian camels that wander so perilously close to the road; good call on the roll cage! The hairy, two humped beasts ambled along, at home in this barren, limestone landscape. They crossed paths with shaggy horses as they both foraged in the scrub. I would soon discover that one of these beasts is a staple of the Kazakh diet. In this hazy dream-like scene, I could picture Ghengis Khan and his warriors riding this parched steppe, once again staking their claim as they did in the 1200’s. In reality, it was only a goat herder recklessly shunting his precious flock across the busy highway. I gasped and the driver chuckled as I clutched Bruce’s hand; he sensed his normally intrepid travel companion was momentarily in culture shock!

A row of Khrushchyovkas often with painted murals decorating their ‘gabled ends’..either folk art, political or cultural

A dombra – the national instrument

The first glimpse of the city itself, Aktau, confirmed my bemusement. I’ve lived in similar cities in varying stages of development, notably Doha and Muscat. They weren’t as modern as they are now, yet it was in their tucked away labyrinth of streets and souks that they came to life; exotic scenes, smells and intrigues. Would it be the same here? Please tell me that’s the case, I feel as if the clock has been rolled back.

At first sight; drab, little greenery, crumbling sidewalks, haphazard and care worn. And then I see them, the Soviet style apartments. They go on and on and I know I’m in a former Eastern bloc state. Even with a smattering of modern buildings, one could imagine a city in decay or, with a positive outlook a city on the cusp of rejuvenation. Had one lived here during the Soviet days, it could appear progressive and modern. If not, it might seem outdated and dowdy, eager for a makeover. For all that, it’s a mere forty years old, originally founded in a quiet corner of U.S.S.R. where nuclear testing would go relatively un-noticed. I’ve met Westerners who enjoy living here because of that open space (happily now without the testing) as well as the traditional simplicity. As always, it’s relative and personal.

1, 2 and 3, with a neighbourhood shop

A patriotic mural

By the time I arrive at my hotel, a sleek building of steel and glass, I realize this will be my oasis of modernity. I look out from our suite on the top floor and the Caspian Sea rolls before me like a beautiful canvas. It shimmers and promises something exotic. But that would be stretching the imagination. The hotel stands out incongruously amongst the apartment blocks, a glaring counterpoint to the hastily erected utilitarian structures that give Aktau and any former U.S.S.R. city their character. The majority of the population call them home, some refurbished, most are not. Their once uniform appearance now stamped with a patchwork of individual modifications and candy stripes of pink, yellow and sickly hospital green. They are called ‘Khrushchyovka хрущёвка’ and were constructed from pre-fab’d concrete, mostly trucked out of Moscow. Usually only built up to five stories (this way they didn’t require elevators), they were only intended to stand for twenty-five years or so. They are carbon copied throughout the city, each with seven foot high numbers at the top of each, denoting their address.

The other part… well about those streets with no names, it’s true, there are no names! Even

Mingling of new and past culture along with a few Ladas

Mingling of new and past cultures, with a few white Ladas

the busy street I live on which runs close to the Caspian Sea, doesn’t have a name. I suppose you would say it’s the busy street where the modern hotel is. People here would know and if they didn’t, you would tell them it’s in Microdistrict 9… that’s it. The city is divided into these districts, as was Soviet style. One’s address is a series of numbers; the Microdistrict, building number and apartment number. Structured, simple, no nonsense. What I have noticed is that these areas seem to be neighbourly, often with ‘hole in the wall’ corner stores and colourful playgrounds. Children play in the fading warmth of autumn. Grandparents watch from nearby benches as they chat. And so I walk past their endless rows, intrigued with these homely homes, though I’m not quite sure why… not yet.

The seafront

My solace is the sea. Twice a week I walk and chat with a lively group of expat ladies. We meet at various points along the seafront, some with precious cargos in tow, (toddlers or wee dogs), though most of us are here alone. Accompanying our ‘oil and gas’ husbands, we have nothing but ourselves and time. Many of us are at the stage where adult children are scattered around the world. We speak of them and miss them, of course. But there’s a sense of wanderlust as we recall countries we’ve lived in, adventures remembered and those that are being planned. I’m reminded that living in any new country is always about the people. I’ve been welcomed into the expat group with open arms, lunches, seaside walks and apparently a crazy night of Karaoke is on the cards. No, I can’t sing, but one must be respectful of the local ‘culture’ so I’ll have to be dragged along! If you’re lucky in a new ‘posting’, you meet that one person you just kind of click with… that ought to be here the same time you are.

Molly is also new to the country and as Bruce and I waited for the hotel elevator that first day, she was exiting it. I was an exhausted mess, but I do remember her saying “I’m so glad you’re here now!” I don’t think that’s how I felt, but it was nice to hear. Within days, Molly strolled from her end of the corridor to mine for tea. Admittedly, a farewell one as she and her husband were off to an apartment. There went my new friend and neighbour with her red bucket, rubber gloves and a suitcase. I went back into my suite to ponder if we should also consider an apartment, an option open to us. Our hotel suite suite had been cleaned, our laundry just delivered and I haven’t thought much about it since. Well, maybe once or twice as I shuffle my microwave off my tiny counter to make way for my ‘stove’. Admittedly this isn’t for everyone, being confined to a small space. Let’s see if that view of the sea and ease of life keeps us here.

A breezy Wednesday morning walk

But what is it like, life in a hotel? Well it’s a delightful revolving door. From the people that work here, to the visitors, to those that call it home. The world seems to come into ‘my’ lounge and I love it. Also wonderful are the local Kazaks and Russians, eager to befriend you. I hope to meet with one of them this week as she’d love to tell me more about life here. For that and for friendship, I’m thankful.

A fisherman and a wedding shoot

Of course, there are a multitude of questions I have that in time will hopefully be revealed. To begin with there’s the food, fodder for it’s own entire blog entry. Not to mention the cultural differences, history and the language. My Russian lessons begin soon and admittedly, I’m frightened to death. Firstly, there’s that pesky ‘other’ alphabet to contend with (it’s called cyrillic.) I’ve left other countries not having made an effort with the language and I’m determined to not repeat this. Most people in the traditional shops don’t speak English. Nada, nothing, so it’s rather important. My first word… спасибо, sounds like spasiba… it means thank you. If I’m in the room about 4 pm, our laundry is delivered by a friendly lady named Amanguel. She comes in, hangs up the pressed shirts, plunks down the rest, and proceeds to chat. We point and motion, a game of charades which often ends in her grabbing a pen to illustrate her point. She smiles freely through her front gold-capped teeth, her jet black hair pulled back in a bun. We like each other, even though we can’t communicate.

A piece of Kiev cake and a stab at Russian

And so, this new adventure is just that, an adventure. I’m enjoying that guy beside me again after mostly living apart the last year. We’re suddenly in a suite together with no housework, laundry, chores, weeds to pull, or kids to cook for? It’s pretty darn brilliant actually, the time is ours. As Bruce has always said, ‘Terry Anne, I haven’t experienced it unless you’ve been there to share it with me.” So now I’m here and we’ll see how I manage. It should be alright, unless those walls start to close in, that Siberian wind blows me away or I never get past спасибо!

Late night Limoncella with Molly

In the meantime, Molly and myself are planning a trip with our guys, into the countryside to photograph those odd looking camels, just for starters. She’s a photo journalist, another reason we seem to get along just fine. For me, our friendship was pretty much sealed when I boarded the company bus recently. I really feel like a school child as we’re not permitted to drive here, I miss my Aspen! Once seated, Molly pulled a small vial out of her bag and slipped it into my palm. “Some lavender oil for you, I know yours broke on the way here. Have some of mine.” And that about sums it up. You can weather just about anything if you have friends at your side, a deep blue sea to gaze upon and a trip into the unknown to look forward to!

The Caspian, no seashells in sight, just sea glass

Sep18

Snippets from a Sojourn in London…of tales and tours

Posted on September 18, 2014 by terryannewilson

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A typical London street scene with the iconic red phone box; the first one appeared in the 1920s

Ten days of re-connecting with friends, of culinary delights, of sightseeing and incongruously, of waiting for a visa to live in Kazakhstan. Of glorious weather, museums and navigating London’s underground until I no longer had to consult whether it was the Piccadilly or the Bakerloo line that I needed to hop onto…I was rather chuffed with myself! With so much that inspired me, where does one begin to write? This trip revealed some fascinating aspects of London; mostly because of a tour, three in fact.

Thanks to my friend Patrick who currently lives in London, he arranging a tour the day after I arrived. It wasn’t surprising this is how we chose to spend time together as we had been colleagues as tour guides in Norway. But now instead of Vikings, we were focusing on more literary matters, on Charles Dickens. The tour was of Dickens’ London. It was fascinating as we wandered the streets that had shaped the authour’s life. One such spot was the wall of Marshalsea Debtors Prison where Dicken’s father had twice been imprisoned. This would greatly impact the young boy and these early experiences would manifest themselves in his classics such as David Copperfield (his thinly disguised autobiography),

The Red Cross Church that pays homage to Octavia Hill

Oliver Twist and A Christmas Carol. During one of his father’s terms in prison, the young Charles laboured in a shoe blackening factory. The harsh conditions would render him rather OCD later in life with regards to cleanliness. He would become an ostentatious dresser as well. All to wipe away the painful childhood memories of wearing rags, of filth, of poverty.

A view of the river Thames

Years later, Dickens would also become a generous philanthropist which was evident when the tour wound its way past the simple Red Cross Hall in Southwark. It pays homage to social reformer, Octavia Hill. Dickens supported her initiative, ‘The Cottage Movement’. Hill endeavoured to instill self respect and responsibility to ‘fallen’ ladies by providing small gardens for them to work in. The gardens were also places where the poor could commune with nature and escape the harsh, everyday life of Victorian England. Octavia Hill is said to have coined the phrase ‘green belt’ as she campaigned to save many green spaces in the London area. This intrepid lady was also a co-founder of the National Trust.

An after tour lunch with Patrick in the lively Borough district

As we made our way through the Borough area, close to the south bank of the River Thames, our guide relayed another interesting, yet this time gruesome scenario for us. Bodies have always washed up ashore along the river; even now as many as fifty a year are recovered.

In Victorian England, muggings were rife with the victim’s bodies often dumped into the murky Thames. But not before their hair had been shaved and sold for wigs, their teeth pulled for dentures and the corpse stripped of clothing. The bodies would become known as…whoppers. These whoppers were prone to clog up in a sharp bend in the river, much to the irritation of the Kings as their flotillas tried to make way. That term for a bend in the river is Charing, as in Charing Cross. A bend that certainly has a colourful past.

Referring back to Charles Dickens and on a lighter note, we have that great novelist to thank for the phrase ‘Merry Christmas’…it was coined in A Christmas Carol in 1843.

On another day I found myself in Kensington on a tour with London Walks. A few minutes into the tour, the guide held up a book and read aloud, his booming voice rich with expression, “…you’ve got a millennium of Kensington in the palm of your hand. You can peel the centuries off like the layers of an onion.” I realized that I had read those words that morning before the tour. The penny dropped. This was the fellow that had written much of the book that was now tucked away in my bag, its pages already dog-earred from my continuous reference to it.

David Tucker of London Walks

David Tucker’s tour was just as compelling as the book he and fellow guides had compiled. Lively and filled with history, its anecdotes and personal perspectives meld the past and present.

As we traversed through Old Kensington Village, it indeed revealed intriguing periods over the bygone centuries. The name itself? Well, the ington ending means an estate associated with someone and in this case it was a man named Cynesige. Sadly nothing else is known of him. Since then, it has been home to countless artists and writers such as Thackeray, Virginia Wolf and J.M. Barrie. It’s believed Barrie met a young boy here that would inspire his character, Peter Pan. Winston Churchill lived and died in Kensington and of course Princess Diana called the nearby Palace her home. The Palace gate is still adorned with flowers and tributes. The Princess and I share the same birthday and I wasn’t the only visitor to stop and peer solemnly through the stately gate.

The gate at Kensington Palace with tributes to Princess Diana

A Kensington townhouse with curved balcony

One of the oldest squares in London lies here, its tall townhouses commanding some of the most expensive prices in the city. Many are decorated with wrought iron balconies. They billow out, curving slightly at the bottom. In the 19th century, ladies wanted to stroll onto the balcony and the curved iron accommodated their round crinolined skirts. Allowing more room to stand, it makes perfect sense once it’s pointed out to you.

As do the coal hole covers that decorate older, wealthier streets of London, such as Kensington. Some of them survive from the mid 1700’s and they are trod on daily, with all but a few oblivious to their significance. At the time, all heating was fired by coal. The cast iron covers protected the chutes through which the coal was delivered to wealthier homes. Though locked from the inside to prevent theft, apparently the odd lithe child was able to infiltrate them. Yes London was ‘foggy’, not only from the weather, but also from the soot, from all that coal.

A fine example of Cottage Mews

Kensington is also known for its mews and David revealed their history. In present day, cottage mews are charming terraced cottages but originally they were not quite as sophisticated. In the 18th and 19th centuries, London’s housing for the wealthy generally consisted of streets of large terraced houses, with stables at the back for horses. Carriages were kept on the ground floor and traditionally a ramp would lead to the second floor where the horses were stabled. As David quipped, “It’s far easier to drag a horse up to the second story than it is a carriage.” The third story was for the stablemen.

Interestingly however, mews derives from the word for mewing or moulting as in feathers. From 1377 onwards, the king’s falconry birds were kept in the King’s Mews at Charing Cross. The name remained when it became the royal stables in 1537 during the reign of King Henry VII, I though it was later demolished to make way for Trafalgar Square. The present Royal Mews was then built in the grounds of Buckingham Palace.

As is typical in London, Kensington is not without its fair share of pubs. I was curious why they are so prevalent, often with intriquing names. During the Middle Ages, a large proportion of the population was illiterate and so illustrations on a sign were more practical than words. One could distinguish a duck and dog, or a dragon being slain, for example. There was often no need to write the establishment’s name on the sign and pubs sometimes opened without a formal written identity. That ‘minor detail’ was often derived later from the picture on the pub’s original sign.

An example of a pictorial sign

As for the vast number of London pubs; we partly have the great fire of 1666 to blame, or thank for that. After the devastation, the city was rebuilt and the workers that did so needed food and ale, even better if they were situated on corners for convenience. Traditionally ale was much safer to drink than the water; this also applied to children who drank ale at a young age.

A pub on Fleet Street, rebuilt one year after the Great Fire,

The last tour I enjoyed in London is a must. My dear friend Kristen had joined me from Norway and it transpired that the London Food Lovers tour is how we spent our final day together. She’d return to Stavanger that night and I’d depart to Frankfurt, Istanbul and finally Aktau, Kazakhstan. Needless to say, a lot of emotions were surfacing and I was thankful for a good friend by my side…and some wonderful food.

Sarah is the founder of London Food Lovers and a knowledgeable guide who led us through the streets of Soho. Oh the culinary delights we encountered!

The Italian shop, Lina’s on Brewer Street

The Golden Square in Soho, where the walk originates, encapsulates the spirit of the tour. This square, tucked away behind Piccadilly Circus, was farmland until Henry VIII tacked it onto the Palace of Whitehall as a Royal park in 1536. The origin of the name? It was a hunting call before the hunt, SOHO, and off they galloped.

Fast forward and it became an area that immigrants gravitated to for cheap housing, especially the French Hugenots which is why it became know as London’s French quarter.

Many of those immigrants shared their culture and unique food. Today this is still what Soho is known for, as well as entertainment and business. In the early 20th century, cheap eating-houses were established and the neighbourhood became a fashionable place for intellectuals, writers and artists. From the 1930s to the 1960s, Soho folklore holds that the pubs were packed every night with creative minds. Many of whom, legend has it, never stayed sober long enough to become successful.

Fresh Ravioli with a multitude of fillings

Today the area is a culinary delight as the wonderfully detailed tour would reveal to us. From the divine Italian chocolate shop, SAID, to Lina Stores where the freshly made ravioli was displayed as perfectly as it tasted. To Govind’s, a vegetarian spot where we sampled scrumptious samosas on the street. All preparations in the restaurant are first offered to Lord Krishna before being served; indeed they were heavenly. Another stop was at the Mexican restaurant La Bodega Negra (a favourite haunt of the A list), the margaritas and food were excellent.

On we went to the Dog and Duck (yes, the afore mentioned) where we not only sampled three different ales, but discussed the importance of ale in society as noted previously. As someone who enjoys wine over ale, I can admit I actually enjoyed a ‘wee jar’ in the setting of an old, classic British pub. Two very enticing stops were yet to come.

Perfection at Corinthia Hotel with Kristen

Kristen and myself had intended to include a traditional British tea into one of our afternoons, but had run out of time. Wonderfully this was taken care of with the unexpected visit to the Corinthia Hotel for tea and cakes. The breathtaking setting caught us all off-guard and our small group of ladies was captivated by the perfection of it all. The lobby is an oasis of beauty, as is the tea service, as were the delectable cakes. We pictured ourselves in a movie set perhaps, or even Downton Abbey when we heard the hotel was once the Metropole and referred to in the series. We would have been delighted if this had been the final stop, yet there was one last quintessential London sight to experience.

The grandeur of The Corinthia

Each stop had been carefully chosen by Sarah, an American that had left home early and headed to Italy to discover her roots. Along the way she trained as a sommelier, gave food tours in Italy and later decided that London was calling. This tour is a unique (and delicious) experience in London. Try to book the tour at the start of your trip however, so you can actually return to some of the spots.

And so our last location was Gordon’s Wine Bar, reputed to be the oldest in London and just a stone’s throw from the Embankment tube station. We entered the cavern-like atmosphere; redolent with centuries of conversation prevading the musty air. As the candles illuminated the dark recesses, we toasted each other with wines from around the world. Four hours previous we had chosen to come together because of our love of food and we unanimously agreed that we had experienced a side of London we pleased to have seen and tasted. Uncharacteristically, I actually had to tear myself away and leave a wine bar early. My flight was only hours away.

The perfectly aged, Gordon’s Wine Bar

With hugs all around, I dashed onto the nearby tube station, fetched my luggage. On to Heathrow where flights awaited to journey me to Kazakhstan, yet another country to add to our list of countries of residence. The distraction of the tours had been crucial for someone venturing to an ‘unknown’ country.

It had been a great sojourn and wonderful to see friends and spend time in lovely England. And to London, that grand city to which I can’t wait to return and peel away more intriguing facts, more layers of that onion. I certainly know where I’ll be dining next time as well!

*London Stories by David Tucker and The Guides, Virgin Books 2009